


An Echo of the Grave

by Anonymous



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gothic, Horror, Love, Post-Season/Series 01, You Decide, blossomcest if you squint, or maybe just the usual creepy Blossom closeness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-16 06:46:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13630872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Jason Blossom is dead. And yet when Cheryl is alone, when the night is at its darkest, and the wind hisses through the flame-eaten skeleton of Thornhill, she can feel him there beside her. A footstep. A whisper. A sigh. A shadow. Their love, mightier even than the dread hand of death.





	An Echo of the Grave

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a while back so it obviously doesn't comport with canon anymore. Takes place post S1 and totally disregards S2.

It starts small. Small enough that Cheryl hardly notices at first.

Humans are trained to ignore _that_ instinct in favor of higher reasoning. The instinct that screams at you, on a primal level you didn’t know existed. The one that tells you that you aren’t alone, even when you think you are.

_It’s the wind._

_It’s the floorboards._

_It’s my imagination._

Cheryl walks the dark, half-scorched halls of Thornhill and suddenly there’s someone by her side. She can hear the breathing. Sense the heat of another body. Even feel the heartbeat. And a blurred, shapeless shape begins to take form in the corner of her eye.

She turns her head, and there’s nothing there. No one there.

So she ignores it.

Cheryl sits alone at lunch hour. Her posse has long since deserted. Sure, no one could quite _prove_ she’d tried to burn her ancestral mansion to the ground and put her mother into a coma from which she would likely never recover. But Riverdale talks. Riverdale likes to talk. And after a lot of talking Riverdale decides she isn’t fit for polite society anymore.

That’s fine.

She hopes they all burn in hell.

Veronica Lodge, Archie Andrews and the rest of the Scooby gang make their awkward, half-hearted friendship overtures. They ask her to sit with them at lunch. Invite her to the movies, or just for a few milkshakes at Pop’s. Text or call at ungodly hours to ‘make sure she’s ok’.

It’s pretty goddamn pathetic, really. Nothing but guilt. So they’d ‘saved’ her at Sweetwater River. Cheryl supposes that makes her their burden hereafter. That’s all she’s ever been, right? A burden. To Riverdale. To her peers. To her parents.

To everyone but Jason.

But Jason’s gone. And if she can’t have him then she’d rather have no one.

So Cheryl sits alone at lunch. She picks at a slice of cardboard pizza and a cup of revolting green beans. She’ll toss the whole tray in a bit. Sad Breakfast Club gives her sympathetic, ‘concerned’ stares from across the room. She answers with daggers.

The air next to her heats up. Warm, but not unpleasant. The warmth of blood in the veins. Of a beating heart. Of life. The warmth of another human being.

And Cheryl doesn’t feel so alone. She even finishes her inedible cafeteria meal. There’s no one sitting beside her, of course. She knows this, even as that indistinct figure begins to materialize at the periphery of her vision again. Even though she can all but _hear_ the gentle rhythm of another heartbeat beside her. She turns her head and there’s only air again. No, there can’t be anyone there.

 _There can’t be anyone there_ , Cheryl says to herself as she draws the comforter up to her chin in the depth of the night and prays for sleep to come. She says this to herself when the air shimmers and the curtains billow and she’s certain there _is_ someone here with her. Even in the pitch black of a moonless night, the presence is _there_ , clear as a morning sun.

She shuts her eyes tight. Opens them again. And she still doesn’t see anything. But there’s someone. Beside her in the dark. Not so much a human as the echo of one. Like a footprint in wet cement. Something dead that for a moment is alive again.

But Cheryl isn’t afraid. She doesn’t scream ‘ghost’ and fly out into the hall in panic. Doesn’t make the sign of the cross and implore God to protect her. Why would she, when she feels so safe already? For the first time in too long, she’s not alone.

A familiar sensation. The feeling of unity. Of security. Of being one half of a whole.

“Jason?” she calls into the quiet dark, voice quavering. There’s no gust of wind or shaken furniture to answer her. But the presence grows stronger. Healthier. It fills the room. Grips her in its power. Breathes new life into her.

Cheryl Blossom sleeps well that night.

What little effort she still puts into schoolwork vanishes completely. Her grades plummet. Cheryl doesn’t speak in class anymore. She turns in half-coherent, rambling essays. Leaves tests blank.

She’s too busy willing the presence to her. Willing _Jason_ to her. Because she knows it’s him, now. Knows it as surely as she’s ever known anything in her life. Cheryl doesn’t have to see, hear, or touch her brother to know he’s there. Those are the vulgar senses. The material. They’re beyond such a base reality now.

He comes in flashes and bursts. Mostly when she’s alone. So Cheryl cuts off what few social ties she’s maintained. She comes into school only sporadically. Then she stops. Slowly, Cheryl Blossom fades into nothing.

One cold night, she gets a text from Veronica Lodge.

**How are u doing? Wanna come to the movies w us?**

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she goes to her list of contacts and purges it.

She waits.

Waits until the room is filled with a perfect warmth and beauty. Cheryl feels that wonderful drumming of another heart. Beating in tandem with hers.

“Jason.” She breathes. As if to answer, her skin is suddenly afire. Like little pinpricks from head to toe. Her breath hitches. It’s like being burnt alive. Or submerged into the freezing water of the river again. But it’s so pleasant. So perfect. She wants to burn like this forever.

And for a moment, only a moment, she _sees_ him. Right at her side. Where he belongs. Tears of joy spring from Cheryl’s eyes. He turns to her, his eyes blue and sparkling. He smiles. She reaches out to touch him. And then he’s gone again.

After that night, Cheryl sees Jason more and more often. It comes in those moments when she turns her head and her vision flickers. Or when it’s dark and the shadows swallow everything and it seems just possible it’s all a lovely nightmare. She sees his pale, ivory skin. Just like her own. His red hair and his sweet, handsome face. Cheryl reaches out for him, but he’s always gone before she can _feel_ him again. And god, she wants nothing more.

Cheryl wanders the dark corridors and silent rooms of Thornhill with a flickering candelabras to light her way. Silent shadows escort her through the groaning mansion. Half of it is gone. Reduced to ash. The skeleton of a grand manor. The fire licked away walls and carpet. Destroyed centuries of history. Left blackened pillars and charred mortar in its wake. It creaks. Threatening to fall. It’s dangerous. She goes there anyway. Cheryl calls out into the darkness for her brother. Or when she can feel him near, she whispers it like a precious secret. She grabs at the air where she _knows_ he is, shaking in frustration at catching nothing.

She doesn’t eat much anymore. Begins to waste. Her eyes grow weak and glassy, her lovely face wan and sickly. Cheryl trembles as she hunts her lonely castle. Her body cries for sustenance. For sleep. For sanity. But the soul has always held dominion over the flesh. So instead of eating, she walks. Instead of living, she paces.

One night with no stars and no moon, he appears long enough for her to ask him a question.

“Will you please stay with me?”

Jason doesn’t answer. Not in words. He smiles, so sweet and loving, as he always was to her. He takes a step towards her, and Cheryl’s heart skips. She reaches out, and she _swears_ she can feel his breath against her hand as she moves to cup his face. But then he vanishes like a dream again and she cries out in impotent agony.

But he’s coming. Each day he comes closer to her. Every night she can feel more and more of him. He’s being restored, slowly but certainly. He’ll be here for her in full soon. His spirit fills this awful house and fills her. He makes her whole again, and even as her body weakens her soul is returned to life. She knew he would never leave her. He wouldn’t. Nothing was stronger than their love. Not even death.

Cheryl hasn’t been this happy since the day he left her at the bank of Sweetwater River that July 4th.

God, was it really less than a year ago?

She hasn’t seen anyone else in nearly a week. She never turns on the lights in Thornhill. She has to live in darkness, because only then will he come to her. So she gladly does so. She spurns the daylight. Curses the sun. Lives for the gloom.

Cheryl rises at the witching hour. Tonight is special. She knows it, though she does not know why or how. She puts on a dress of linen, pure white. Phantasmagoric. Gossamer. Like the dress she wore _that_ day.

She doesn’t take a candelabras tonight. Cheryl needs no light. She moves guided by something greater than her. Her dainty feet make no sound against the hard wood of Thornhill’s floors. She walks like a ghost, blinding white against a pitch-black canvas. West, she goes. The scent of smoke, infused into carpet and wallpaper, fills her nostrils. Cheryl is confronted with the fruits of her own crime as she enters Thornhill’s foyer. The roof is gone, burned away. A great gaping window to the night sky yawns in its place. Heavy black clouds obscure the stars and the moon. Threaten rain. She doesn’t care.

Cheryl doesn’t call out for him tonight. She feels she doesn’t have to. She turns in a slow circle, eyes hunting the darkness.

And he’s there. Standing right there. Ten feet from the remains of the fireplace. Cheryl takes a few steps towards him, hardly daring to breath. Terrified to drive him off again. But he doesn’t vanish. He remains. Even as she draws closer, so that they’re almost touching, he doesn’t vanish. Cheryl’s heartbeat quickens. Her fingers brush his arm. Brush his skin, soft and cool. And he still remains. Cheryl laughs. She cries, delirious in joy. Her shattered heart mends itself.

God, she’s missed him so much. In a moment, all the pain and horror of the past year is washed away. Everything is righted. The crooked places are made smooth. Cheryl puts her arms around Jason. It doesn’t matter that he’s still soaked in the waters of the river that took him from her. Doesn’t matter that she can sense the dark impression of a bullet hole between his eyes. It’s _Jason_ and he’s here with her again, after so long. She doesn’t have to say goodbye. She never will. This is it. She isn’t afraid, not in the slightest. She’s been afraid all of her life. Not anymore. He reaches out and touches her shoulder, light, ephemeral.

The water of the river pools at their feet. Cheryl doesn’t care.

She goes.

* * *

It’s quite a mystery.

No one can quite explain how Cheryl Blossom drowned in the foyer of Thornhill mansion. How her lungs filled with Sweetwater River two miles from its lonely shore seems to defy reason.

And no one, not even Sheriff Keller, whose job it is to know these things, is sure they really want to know why she died with a smile on her face.


End file.
